Tag: time

time warp

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Anybody who has known me for any length of time knows that I am the world’s worst at dates and times. This is a neural defect I can’t blame on Lyme. It’s also not ADHD, nor is it carelessness. I could blame it on falling out of a tree at the age of seven. My head cracked like an egg on the cement driveway below and I was in a coma. I am deaf in my left ear from that fall, and I like to believe that the very tiny area of the brain that processes dates and times was also damaged. Otherwise, my inability to remember dates and times is just pathetic.

My issues with this go waaaaaaaay back, and have been a family joke since I can remember. Mom often said I would be late for my own funeral. I have a tendency to forget about the month of February. Don’t ever ask me what the day and date is. Although I have a great memory for details about people and things that happened, like how one cold spring night in high school I was drinking Jack and Coke with friends (I could name them, but you know…) lying on the hood of a car parked in an undeveloped cul-de-sac  listening to Peter Frampton’s “Do You Feel” for the first time, but I can’t tell you off the top of my head for certain which year Katie graduated from high school (it was 2004 or 2005, so I do have it narrowed down.) It was a source of irritation to my ex that I could never quite remember our anniversary, probably because it was in February.

I don’t do this on purpose, or for attention. Yes, I have employed many of the methods I’m sure you could suggest for me. I’ve had calendars, alarms, reminders, and sticky notes. I’ve worn rubber bands that snapped at my wrist. The problem is that I can look at the calendar and see events, birthdays, and appointments, and ten minutes later it is all gone from my brain, like it never was.

This gives my life an element of mystery, for sure. My bewilderment is genuine, and my surprise at missing something is never feigned. I’ve long since given up being embarrassed about it.

Sometimes I’d love to see an MRI of my brain while questioned about dates and times. I’m fairly certain there would be very little activity. At least I hope that is what it would show, because it’s not like I want to be this way. For me, it truly is a form of brain damage, the area of time and dates a blank canvas sparsely spattered with random dates that I do remember.

There are many stories about my inability to get dates straight. I can remember a few, especially the epic ones. The most epic, the one I hate to tell, is the time I managed to score Prince tickets when he came to Denver for two nights. The tickets were something like twentieth row seats and cost over $600, because we invited another couple to go with us. I’m guessing a lot of you can see where this story is going. We headed down to the Pepsi Center the second night, because I was sure that was the night. It wasn’t. Honestly, I was surprised they took it so well. Also surprised I didn’t get divorced over that (although it does show the level of disfunction in our relationship that I didn’t forward any info to my ex. It was a control thing between us that grew worse and worse).

There was the time I missed a mini-reunion with high school friends because I got the night wrong. I think I even argued with them that I was right. I don’t do that any more, thank goodness. No, I accept this brain fluke and try to make sure it doesn’t happen too often. I’ve also learned to ask my friends for reminders, and I always check to see if businesses send reminder texts for appointments.

Technology has become my best friend for this problem. I’m going on vacation with my friend Laura in March. Fortunately for me, Orbitz and Airbnb update my calendar for me, reducing the risk of entering the wrong dates. Yes, I do that quite often. Another quirk of my date deficiency is that a day or date that is wrong will get stuck in my brain and won’t move, like a popcorn kernel wedged between two back molars. That’s something that really drives Katie crazy. “No, mom, I already told you four times, it’s next Saturday, not this Saturday!”  But Laura , bless her, reminded me to send her all the reservations and dates so she can double-check to see if I’ve screwed up and enter them on her own calendar.

Sometimes I don’t know why friends put up with this nonsense. Maybe if you are aware of it you simply accept it as a quirk and adjust accordingly, like Laura, or get annoyed and needle me, like Katie. I’m grateful the people in my life have accepted this foible of mine and I’ll gladly accept nagging, teasing, and constant reminders if it means I won’t forget.

There must be other stories, just like there are other stories about my deaf ear. If you remember any, I’d love to hear them. I’ll probably remember the memory, but not the date and time. And please, if I ever make plans with you, put it on your calendar and shoot me a couple of texts.

 

 

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decompression

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I think I may be decompressing (or falling apart) after an incredibly busy and stressful summer. Now that I am healthy more than I am sick, I chose to cash in on my home and simplify my life. Sounds good, right? Well, I know moving. I have moved forty times in my life (this was my fortieth) and bought and sold seven houses. This was my eighth purchase, so I know the process. This was the most difficult move I have ever made, for several reasons. First, I radically downsized. Although I was more than ready to do so, it is a long, difficult process, even for someone who regularly goes through and gets rid of stuff, like me. Second, the market in Denver is absolutely off the hook. Selling a house is easy-peasy. Buying a house? Extremely difficult. Third, and the most challenging, this move represented moving on with life into the unknown.

Downsizing is an emotional journey whether you want to do it or not, especially after forty+ years of acquiring things. If I’ve done it right, I won’t miss anything that I let go. So far, so good. I do feel much lighter. The possessions were literal baggage; relics of a former life that is gone. What surprised me was how difficult getting rid of possessions are post-COVID. No one wants anything now. It took one estate sales, two donation pick-ups, and a listing for “free stuff” on NextDoor, and one junk pick-up to get rid of everything we wanted.

Buying a townhome was just as stressful as getting rid of things. We put bids on three properties before we found “the one.” After all the drama with selling and downsizing, once our bid was accepted, that part was surprisingly easy. They even moved up the move date by almost three weeks, a welcome event, because we were living in a stripped-down work site. Oh, did I mention I had to do a nearly $20k repair for the sale of the house? Well, I did, and that was a HUGE hassle. In the end, Katie and I purchased a townhome together. I’ll be there part-time, so it is definitely more “hers” than mine, despite the hefty down payment I made. She is extremely happy to have a mortgage and an asset. I’m extremely happy I don’t have to worry about a big house and yard when I am not there.  And yet, I am having trouble letting go of the fact that I am mistress of no home right now, but more of a guest, both in Dad’s house and now Katie’s. It’s a strange feeling, despite how generous they are. Neither mind letting me take over the kitchens while I’m there. I have my own spaces in both homes. And yet I struggle, even though it is what I wanted. 

The third point is the stickler right now. Wanting to be unencumbered and being unencumbered are two different states. Perhaps it is becauseI haven’t had enough time (really, since 2013) to work through all the major changes in my life. Divorce, graduate school, and Lyme, one after the other, in quick succession. Caveat: if you who think being sick is “downtime”, I know you’ve never been seriously ill for any length of time. As I’ve said before, being sick for long periods of time is a really shitty job. It’s hard, hard, work, and when you’re not sick, you’re frantically playing catch up. That was part of the reason I have voluntarily set myself adrift. The less I have on my plate means less catching up.

Without that ceaseless cycle to occupy me, I’m left to decompress. The first week back in Tucson was filled with getting Rocky and myself settled, and taking care of things around the house for Dad. The second week I got myself caught up with all the online minutiae of changing addresses, getting finances in order, and establishing a schedule. That only takes up so much time.

People, I’m here to tell you that decompressing and having the time to process huge life changes absolutely blows

Humans will do almost anything to avoid their own emotions of sorrow, rage, and regret and I am no exception. I don’t want to think about all the things I’ve dealt with. I find myself flitting from what I should be doing to mindless doom-scrolling and game-playing. At what point do I declare an end to decompressing and begin thriving again? I know what my therapist would say: there is no timeline for this journey. He would say I need to recognize that I have been through over six long years of being more sick than well. He would tell me I need to be kind to myself and relearn how to manage my energy and my life.

But for now, it means flitting from task to task, never quite able to fully concentrate on anything. It means struggling to give myself permission to do things just for me that aren’t related to getting better or surviving. I have to figure out where the line between self-indulgence and self-care is.

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confinement

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Being sick is boring. I used to joke that Lyme had transformed me into a swooning Victorian lady until shit got real. Then it wasn’t funny anymore. Seriously, think what it must have been like to be sick before, say, 1910. There would have been days, weeks, hell, months of confinement with little to do but lie there. Of course, if you were rich, there was a staff of servants to tend to your every comfort, but aside from talking to other people or watching the world outside your window or reading, there was nothing to do. Some people might argue this was the perfect time to contemplate one’s navel. I would argue they have never been really, really sick for a long time, so fuck them and their lofty goals.

This is where modern comforts become indispensable. It’s as though all of our advancements have been designed if not solely for long term illnesses, most certainly for our convenience. Hot, instant showers, check. Microwaves for easy cooking, check. Cell phones so you can stay connected, check. Television to pass the time, check, check, check.

TV is complicated. It can be used to enrich, enlighten, and entertain. That’s the good side. TV can also pacify, stratify (take a look at the differences in TV habits of America http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/12/26/upshot/duck-dynasty-vs-modern-family-television-maps.html if you don’t believe me), and nullify. That’s the bad side. I liked the bad side while I was sick. When I say bad, I mean mindless. I watched, in no particular order, Law and Order: SVU, Snapped, Property Brothers, Fixer Upper (okay, this one is not that bad), Chopped, House Hunters, Hoarders, Intervention, Toddlers and Tiaras, and Project Runway. Oh, and the Hallmark Channel (at some point I will dedicate a whole blog to Hallmark). What is it about these shows that tickled my brain when it was inflamed? I’ve thought about it a lot and I think these shows have some similarities that I needed. For one, each of these shows followed a strict pattern. They all had distinct noises/theme music that signaled each segment of the show. None of them require any thought (except maybe Law and Order), and all can be watched with half of your attention, which is good because while I was sick I had the attention span of a Retriever puppy. All these things combined made them perfect for entertainment while sick.

I’ve never been one of those people who had “my shows”. My nanny used to talk about her shows as if they were close friends with rigid schedules. Saturday night? Lawrence Welk. Sunday night, Ed Sullivan. She had her soaps. She LOVED Carol Burnett and Red Skelton. At the time, I thought these were signs of a deeply impoverished life. Now that I’ve spent over a year living a deeply impoverished life, I don’t judge. TV fills the void. You’re too sick to socialize, or do anything useful, but not sick enough to stay in bed all the time. TV brings life into your own life, people talking and doing things. For many shut-ins, TV becomes a lifeline to the outside world.

I did watch other things. I tried watching the news until the election coverage became so shrill and disturbing I had to turn to something else less contentious, like “Bad Girls Club” (If you haven’t seen it, you should, if only to see how low TV can go). I tried watching movies. The only ones I could follow were either children’s movies (“Up”, “Toy Story”, “The Incredibles”) or stoner movies.

With my brain returning, my TV time has sharply decreased. What I do watch is more cerebral and less filler. I’ve returned to Netflix to see shows like “Stranger Things”, or “Frankie and Grace”. I still can’t watch long convoluted dramas like “House of Cards” or “Game of Thrones”. To be fair, I don’t like shows like that much anyway. What I’ve learned during this whole ordeal is sometimes TV, especially bad TV, has a place. I’m not recommending a steady diet (GIGA is real), but when getting through the day is your only goal, TV can be a lifesaver.

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